


Yes

by Imprise



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Musicians, No Dialogue, POV Sherlock Holmes, Piano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 16:57:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13574919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imprise/pseuds/Imprise
Summary: Sherlock learns that John can play the piano.





	Yes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Holmesianscholar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holmesianscholar/gifts).



> How odd it is that this came to be.

There is absolutely nothing to say about anything other than that Sherlock did not know John could play. He knew about the cracks in his skull by looking at him, but is just now learning about the piano-playing, and only because John is now sitting in a corner, looking at the pale sweaty keys of an old woman’s love. Sherlock knows it was her love because she died with real grace. John has never caught Sherlock’s full attention before, but now he turns away from death to watch John and John’s palpable desire, desire that has feet, a mouth, desire with a body of becoming. He will ask John very soon what this love means, as his head is full to the brim with John and John’s fingers, twitching, twitching, at his sides. Of course they’re twitching, John must have not played for years. Please John play for me please. I want to hear you be.

John has a lot of physical presence but he’s also very reserved. Sherlock hadn’t noticed how reserved John was until he started paying attention, and now that he pays attention he cannot stop. He has on purpose brought John with him to the place of his childhood, where there are many musicians and John can make things sing. John sat by the piano and his foot went stiff. There is a lot of trauma here, but Sherlock is not able to extricate himself from the great beauty of John being. After John touches the animal Sherlock sits beside him and feels his thigh line up with John’s thigh, John’s bone. He feels the great blood-pulse of his femoral arteries. He smells John’s sweat which smells like excitement, exhaustion. John is very hurt but Sherlock wants him to keep playing. He says to John You smell tired and John only looks at him and laughs. John is sweet and very attentive. Thank you John for being the way you are as small and warm as you are when you make things shine for me.

He brings John there more and more often. John makes emotions come out that Sherlock did not know existed. They talk music theory and Sherlock is sure it is not the music but his friend that makes so much beat inside him. It has only been a few days and his chest is sore with love. Sherlock doesn’t know it’s love but there’s too much to it not to be. They find a practice room and one day, as they’re talking, John touches his hand. It’s wildly exciting, and Sherlock is afraid. John’s fingers leave marks, but no one sees.

John’s fingers are their own paradigm. John’s fingers should have an island in their name. Sherlock would go there and lick every one of the beach’s stones, and crawl up the hill and lick every blade of grass for good measure. He would build a hut from John’s bones and forget to punch a chimney hole so he’d die. He wants to go soft for John’s fingers. This is very nice that you can play so well, John, you are my John and I will make you things. I don’t know what hurt you but all you do is good. I won’t ask you for anything anytime soon.

Oh dear, John held his hand. How John knows he wants him to do this he doesn’t know. Everything in him is John and playing with John. His violin hasn’t been made love to like this in years. He places his violin somewhere nice and safe and sits beside John on that little stool and John runs his fingernail up his palm. John threads his fingers through his and squeezes. Sherlock finds himself saying something very vulnerable. John holds his hand and his forearm and his heart. The sun sets over them before John says something else, and it is in response to a question Sherlock never asked. The evening stretches before John’s head touches his: Where he is, on the bench, is where John should be, John should be loving him, John should be everything, because he pushes Sherlock’s glial cells up into his whole seamless self. Sherlock loves John so much he could lose an eye. John’s nose brushes the long flutebone of his cheeks. John’s nose is travelling where it hasn’t into his hair. John’s nose is finding his nose and all Sherlock can do is breathe. He is humming head to toe for John’s kiss, head to sole, John should do something that gets them out of this. John has to do it. John doesn’t do it and Sherlock seizes the back of his neck. John responds with perverse fervor and straddles Sherlock’s long man’s legs. They kiss in no way Sherlock knows. Sherlock has purposely left over so much he doesn’t know. John’s mouth is so new and so beautiful. Sherlock can count eight ways in which he would like to tell John it’s beautiful. Sherlock is going to make his violin weep. He clutches John’s thighs and cries out when John touches him. He bites John’s earlobe when John strokes his cock. There is nothing between them except the promise of aged melodies. There is a great expanse of things that were and that could be. He traces John’s eyetooth with his tongue. John holds him by the shoulders and kisses his face with the most unthinkable tenderness. Sherlock thinks this is holier than anything deserves to be and hopes his skin doesn’t move. The room is pitch dark and he can only guess at John by his heat. He is pinned down by an unspeakable weight. They are kissing with the weight of every muscle and every nerve that Sherlock thinks is missing a myelin sheath. They are kissing like a child is born every time John opens his mouth. Sherlock believes that out of the window they are radiating contentment. If there were an antenna turned their way Sherlock knows it would catch his brain making Bach. This is better than Bach. Sherlock never wants them to stop.

John has been hurt by desert men and at first it was difficult for him to move his hands, but Sherlock can see a great artist in the playing without having to hear every note fall well. Now John has told him explicitly that this is what made him stall in the doorway and beside the piano and in his bed at night when he thought about love. Sherlock is happy John has told him. Sherlock is happy and this is foreign and all is well. All is new and well. Sherlock has not imagined John being quite so talented or so quick to love him. They both love each other and the music and Sherlock loves every key John has touched and he loves John’s veins. He loves the fluid of the morning when they come together to make love. He loves the synovial fluid of the afternoon. They play until Sherlock’s fingers are raw with blood. John makes the blood go away without asking. Sherlock is bodily in love.

 

 

 


End file.
